


Day 10: Tentacles

by Aichi



Series: Kinktober 2020 [10]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: F/M, Other, Stomach Bulge, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27023974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: Something strange is happening in Luard's room. Morfessa investigates.
Relationships: Morfessa/Luard
Series: Kinktober 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951588
Comments: 9
Kudos: 6





	Day 10: Tentacles

**Author's Note:**

> I"M SO BEHIND SORRY I'M JUST CHURNING OUT GARBO NOW TRYING TO CATCH UP
> 
> This is.. Technically a continuation of day seven, but you do not by any means have to read that one.

A faint trail of purple smoke curling up from beneath Luard’s door is the first hint Morfessa gets that something is wrong.

She ignores it, for a time, because “Luard making a mess again” is hardly a newsworthy event — the sound-dampening defensive wards deployed in every nearby room after his last explosive mishap are evidence enough of that — but when she passes by his door again several hours later to find the mystery smog _still_ leaking out, she can’t help but be a little concerned.

He might have hurt himself, or worse — might be damaging her castle again.

“Luard.” She knocks, and waits, tapping her heel on the ground.

No response.

_That_ is definitely worrying. The heel thing almost always works.

“Luard? I’m coming in.”

Something slithers wetly behind the heavy purple fog filling the room as Morfessa cracks the door open. She slides in, closing it swiftly and creakily behind her, lest the stuff spill out into the corridor any more than it already has. Inside, the smog is horrendously thick, almost sludge-like against her — thankfully very little — exposed skin, and smells both vaguely bitter and somehow worryingly familiar in a way she can’t quite place. Ugly wet slapping and sucking sounds echo from the far side of the room, and she heads towards them.

“I hope you’re prepared to clean this mess up if it stains my brickwork,” she says, a contemptuous edge to the words that doesn’t match the uncomfortable twinge in her chest as she brushes between stacks of books.

Navigating when she can only see a couple of feet in front of her proves difficult; she actually stumbles over an open book lying square in the middle of the floor, and the sound of pages rustling as it slides over the flagstones triggers a muffled groan somewhere in front of her, cut off by an uncomfortably damp squelch. _That_ was recognizably Luard, at least.

“There you are,” she sighs, moving forward and almost tripping again.

At the edge of her vision, something shifts, but by the time she turns her head, it’s gone, though not without leaving evidence of its presence; a dark, slimy trail across the floor.

Turning back, it takes only a couple more steps before she abruptly finds herself face-to-face with what is undoubtedly the source of all the unpleasant noises and, presumably, of the fog as well.

_Ah_.

Suspended several feet off the ground, Luard’s squirming body is stretched spread-eagled by the thick, rubbery tentacles coiled around each of his limbs. Beneath him, their bases converge and disappear into one roiling, writhing mass of dark purple sludge on the floor, a body that seems to be constantly moving, more tendrils rising from its depths every moment only for them to melt right back into it again. Bubbles swell and burst across its shiny, sticky surface, popping in tiny clouds of thick, moist gas — evidently the same stuff currently choking the entire room.

Luard himself is mostly naked, a stiff erection obvious between his legs, and the reason for his silence is also obvious — the tentacle squirming and pulsating in his mouth turns his yelp of alarm at her appearance into a distorted gurgle.

The one doing the same in his ass probably isn’t helping, either.

“Really, Luard?” Morfessa shakes her head, because she simply doesn’t know what else to say. He looks fine, at least, apart from being… assaulted; he doesn’t seem _hurt_ at all, and he doesn’t even seem that distressed, now that she looks at him. His eyes are wide and dark with alarm, but it’s directed at _her_ ; he isn’t struggling or crying or choking. “This is certainly… new.”

As if on queue, the tentacle in his mouth pulls free with a _pop_ , a thin trail of drool connecting its blunt purple head to Luard’s lip.

“Not that new,” he pants. “Listen— ah— this is _so_ not what it looks like.”

“It _looks_ like you’re having a good time.” The familiar routine of Luard trying to defend the indefensible is amusingly comforting, her prior concern that he may have accidentally vaporized himself already all but forgotten. She _will_ have to remember to be mad about it later, though.

“It’s the— ohh _fuck_ — experiment from the other day—” He shudders and groans as the mass in his ass shifts, his body swaying with its movements. “—Left it alone for a bit— unstable compound grew on its own— got out of control— _ah!_ ” The tentacles writhe and twist, as if excited by the sound of his voice, and Luard is flipped in the air, suddenly hanging upside down. “—It’s fine,” he finishes, breathlessly, voice still somehow edged with his trademark irritation at being interrupted.

Morfessa’s brow crinkles, and it slowly dawns on her where she’s smelled the strange, almost acidic gas before; she’d thought nothing of it when Luard had dropped his in-progress experiment and shoved it aside to talk to her last week, but now she’s probably going to spend the _next_ week wondering what on Cray he was brewing up for it to grow into _this_ when left unattended.

“I hope you plan to tidy all this up,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, more in amusement than true dissatisfaction. “It’s leaking out into the corridor.”

“Mmnn— should dissipate on its own— it’s just—” Luard moans deep in his throat, the tentacle in his hole slurping grotesquely as it worms its way further into him. “— _fuck_ — it’s looking for body heat, prob— probably— should accelerate the decompos— _oohhhh_ —” His words devolve into another heated moan.

Morfessa leans over and inspects the churning, slimy mass, taking care not to get too close. Luard, surprisingly, seems to be heading in the right direction with his hypothesis, and she has to commend him for maintaining his scientific reasoning capabilities even with a sizeable tentacle pistoning into his ass; the more enthusiastically the mass moves, the more frantically its surface seems to bubble, and the faster the body disintegrates into puffs of gas. Even as she watches, it already seems to be shrinking into itself like a deflating balloon.

“So,” she asks, fighting down what she deems to be an inappropriate chuckle, “you’re just planning to let it have its way with you until it’s all burned out, is that it?”

“I don’t,” he gasps, between thrusts, “know— what else— you want me— to do here.”

Before she can reply, the tentacle that had previously been in his mouth returns. It coils loosely around his neck like some kind of rubbery scarf, tip prodding blindly at his flushed cheeks until he obligingly opens his mouth for it; it’s so big that it barely fits between his teeth, stretching out his lips into a wide O-shape, and Morfessa is just _barely_ attentive enough to notice that it’s bigger than before, as if it’s taking mass from the main body to feed its girth, to fit more of itself inside Luard’s welcoming heat.

She can’t say she blames it, really.

The blush from Luard’s cheeks seems to spread all over his body; she’s always been quietly amazed by his enthusiastic responses to even the most… unconventional stimulation, but seeing it spread out before her like this without her even having to tease it from him feels _special_ somehow. It takes everything she has not to reach out and touch him herself, to feel the fire racing under his skin, but _that_ — without his permission — would be brushing up against an uncomfortable limit to what she would deem consensual, no matter how likely it is that he’d be receptive to it.

Another muffled moan leaks out of the corner of Luard’s lips as the tentacle in his rear continues its attempts to delve deeper. A slick, oily fluid leaks out around it, trickling over his upside-down belly; the tentacle seems to be secreting it itself, and Morfessa turns that fact over curiously in her brain, wondering at the idea that this bizarre monstrosity was born with the tools it needed to do exactly _this_.

(If she didn’t know better, she might have said Luard had cooked it up intentionally — but statistically, it’s far more likely he’s simply made a mistake in the process of working on something else. Morfessa doesn’t begrudge him his mistakes; after all, such things are unavoidable, if not essential to scientific progress. She only wishes he’d stop destroying her things in the process.)

The tentacles seem to get only more ambitious the more noise Luard makes. The primary offender teases a long groan from him as it withdraws from his hole, and his body shakes, clenches visibly, _hungrily_ as its tip pulls free. Fortunately for him, it’s back a moment later, dripping more of the same dark oil as it finds his heat again, writing deeper, deeper, driven by an apparent single-minded determination to force as much of itself as it can inside him.

A flush of warmth tingles over Morfessa’s skin as she notices Luard’s stomach beginning to bulge.

It’s only a little, at first, and she’s not sure if she’s imagining it — but the mass of the tentacle has to be going _somewhere_ , and indeed, she realizes, it is, Luard’s gut starting to distend with its weight. The chiseled definition of his abdomen softens and stretches, and she can see, grotesquely — and enthrallingly — the faint shape of the tentacle writhing beneath his skin. The muscles of his thighs are visibly straining, his hard cock bobbing helplessly, drool coating his reddened face as he groans and whimpers around the other appendage still gagging him, but his position clearly leaves him little leeway to truly move. His messy hair hangs loose beneath him, the tips just brushing the floor, and his fingers curl and clench uselessly at the empty air.

“Don’t worry,” she says, rubbing her hands together showily. “It’ll burn itself out soon, right? You don’t need any help? That’s good, because I have other things to be getting on with.”

It pains her to turn away from him, because she wants absolutely nothing more than to immediately conjure up a chair and sit back and _watch_ as Luard comes undone without her having to lift a finger, but when a scene is laid out so lovingly before her like this, she can’t _not_ play into it. So she turns, purple mist swirling in the wake of her cloak, and steps away.

Luard _keens_ , and she doesn’t bother to stifle her laugh this time. She’d expected it to take more than a single step.

“What?” she asks, turning back. “Did you want something? You had it under control, right?”

Her eyes drift down to meet his, and she finds them wide and damp and pleading, his pupils dilated like an overstimulated kitten. His chest jerks, throat convulsing, and the tentacle in his mouth slides free again, dragging a wet, desperate gasp with it.

“N-no,” he breathes, “I mean— yes— please—”

The tentacle is back before he can say another word, but the desperate look on his face as his cheeks bulge with the rubbery, oily shaft again is all she needs.

Morfessa tugs off a glove, tucking it away into her robe, and reaches out to brush her palm over Luard’s swollen stomach. His skin is hot and clammy, and beneath it, the tentacle squirms, slithers, as if some part of him inside was trying to escape. She lets out a slow, measured breath, and presses her fingertips into the flesh as firmly as she dares, stroking the tentacle from outside. It reacts immediately, pushing back against her, and she rubs it in in steady, deliberate circles, massaging it like she would a stomach cramp; it's almost cute, the way it mirrors her, reaches out and practically begs for more attention when she pulls away. Amusingly, it reminds her of Luard himself.

Between their shared ministrations, Luard’s muscles contract and shiver, his confused noises pleasantly muffled once again. She’s always preferred him quiet like this; not for any derisive reason, but simply because Luard is at his most adorable when he’s desperate and denied. He becomes so _willing_ , so endearingly _pliable_ , and revels in it so deeply that even the cruelest debasement in that state only drives him further down the same road. He’s well on his way now, as well, his erection reddened and dripping and still very much untouched. Morfessa ignores it, at least for a moment longer, continues playing with the eager tentacle; she draws a line across sweat-shined skin with one finger, and the bulbous shape of its head follows her, a fleshy gurgle emanating from the depths of Luard’s gut as it moves, still trying to inch itself further into him.

“It looks like you _do_ need something after all, hm?” she purrs, nails trailing threateningly over his skin as she traces her way up, past his increasingly-bulging stomach. Finding the top of his thigh, she gives it a teasing little pinch, grinning at the way he squishes softly between her fingers. “Aren’t you glad I’m here to help you?” she adds, magnanimously, as she skirts very pointedly around his cock, drinking in his helpless moans and letting them warm her skin like a fine wine.

The creature’s main body is now only about half the size it had been when she’d entered, and although a good amount of it has apparently broken down and dissipated into the air, she suspects much more is currently packed, twisting and heaving, into Luard’s guts. There’s a tightness between her own legs, and she has to admit she wouldn’t mind being in there too, filling him out alongside it — but simply toying with him is its own reward, and sometimes that's all she really needs.

For now, she’s content to leave her own pleasure as an afterthought.

_(For now.)_

**Author's Note:**

> Also haha it's another two(three?)-parter! Whoops! Maybe the truth is it's just too hard to write anything that explicit from the dominant PoV huh sorry I'm Just Like This but AAAAAAA THE CONTINUATION WILL COME.. TOMORROW? or whenever I next post because really the idea of doing one per day is long since dead huh
> 
> I do hope to be done within like the first week of november at least. No promises. I have a very big busy irl event happening currently which is why it's all falling apart but, anyway.
> 
> Twitter: @cosmowreath


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